MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 21

 

Confinement

 

It was Sunday, the day after the fight, and they still had me locked up. I told the cops I wasn’t talking until I got a lawyer, then I used my one call. By the time Mamma Rosa showed up, they had all but convicted me. Three of the Woodside guys had been hauled in, but they weren’t talking. I shot one dead and the other guy took a shot to the arm. I told them what happened. It would have gone better if I had just shot the guy who got Mick, because the other guy had no gun. 

Rosa cried. Angie did, too, when she got there. I told her not to worry, and before she left, I gave her a pack of matches. “Put these in Mick’s casket.” She looked at me funny. “He’ll understand.” 

Mick had stolen enough lighters to open up a store, but he was always asking people for a light. Now he’d have one if he needed it.

#

Within a few weeks, they processed me and sent me to trial, and then the judge for sentencing. When the gavel slammed down, seven years came with it. I almost shit. 

Seven years.

My public defender mouthpiece grabbed my arm, but I shook him off. “Seven years? Jesus Christ. They started it.”

The gavel hit again. The judge added thirty days for contempt.

“Shut up or you’ll get more,” the lawyer whispered to me.

I struggled, but I managed to keep my mouth shut. Angie ran to me, crying, but the bailiff held her back. Mamma Rosa, too. I was allowed a quick hug before they took me away. 

“See you soon,” I said, with more than a little pleading hanging on each word.

#

At first, the worst thing about prison was missing Mick’s funeral. After a while, that was a distant worry. I found out quickly that the cops sent word ahead of me that my nickname was “The Rat.” First thing I learned in prison was that the guys didn’t stop to ask how you got the name; they just kicked your ass. I could have killed Doggs for giving me that name. It cost me three days in the prison hospital. 

Fortunately I never got back-doored. They were going to do it once, but I was saved by Teddy ‘The Tank’ Moresco. He was Whale’s brother, and he was as big as Patsy. With Tank’s protection, the beatings stopped. I ended up with a nasty scar above my right eye, but that was a small price to pay.

After the next few weeks, I reflected on what were the worst things. I didn’t mind the clothes or the shoes. Didn’t even mind the isolation. Hell, I’d lived with Pops all my life and he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. What I did miss, though, was the food. This was the worst food I’d ever eaten in my life, even worse than Mick’s house. I winced as I thought it. 

Mick. Dead now. The thought made me more serious than ever to do my time and get out. It made me look at things differently, too, and once I’d done that, I soon grew used to my new surroundings. I even came close to forgiving Tony for what he’d done that night at Woodside, leaving the Mick like he did.

The prison was about fifty miles from home. Not so far when driving, but Rosa had never bothered to get a license, forcing her to rely on Tony, who always seemed to be too busy with one thing or another to bring her to visit me. Despite that, she managed to get there twice in the first two months, using a combination of buses and favors called in from friends. I begged her to stay home. Her legs were getting older than she was, so even walking to the bus stop was too much.